


i see you now with open eyes

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Longing, M/M, Overactive Imagination, Pining, me romanticising the english countryside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22320847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: Sleep evaded him. He lay with his eyes closed, and allowed his mind to wander.It wandered, as it usually did, to James Fitzjames.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 11
Kudos: 65





	i see you now with open eyes

Francis Crozier did not sleep well, and this had been a fact, as simple and true as his name or place of birth, for many months now. The anxiety in his heart and the murmurings in his head were too loud and demanded too much attention. He could not turn them down, as he would turn down an oil lamp.

There was no way to silence the worry, the _dread_ , that seized him at all times. His sleep, when it came, was fractured and fitful. His dreams were perhaps worse than the thoughts that plagued him in waking hours. They left him sweating, shaking, clutching at his sheets, worrying Jopson. It was not the behaviour of a Captain. It was the behaviour of a scared child, and it shamed him.

At the same time, he knew he was not alone in this. Everyone was tired, everyone was troubled. He saw the bags under the eyes of his lieutenants. Even Jopson, usually so proud of his neat appearance, seemed to slouch his shoulders, not standing as straight as he was wont to.

Francis wished for a warm room in a London townhouse, and a large, comfortable bed with as many blankets as he could get his hands on. Eight or nine hours of uninterrupted, blissful sleep. He wished that for every man on his ship, and every man on _Erebus_.

That would come, in a few years, maybe. If they got out of here, that would be their reward.

For now, he lay in his small berth, and sleep evaded him. Staring at his closed eyelids was as entertaining as staring at the ceiling of the small room, so he lay with his eyes closed, and allowed his mind to wander.

It wandered, as it usually did, to James Fitzjames.

It had been a shock to him at first, as it was not usual, nor even _seemly_ , to dedicate so much of one’s time to thinking about the man now in command of _Erebus._ Now, however, it was a comfort. James Fitzjames did not belong in this frozen hell. He belonged in extravagant ballrooms, sitting at well appointed dinner tables, dancing with fine ladies. Francis liked to picture him there. It seemed to set the world to rights.

Now, he saw James whenever he closed his eyes.

Not here. He saw him back in England. Lush green under his feet, he saw James under big blue skies. He had never been to James’ family home but he could imagine it. A fine country house set in acres of land, gently rolling hills and shaded woods. A stream babbling quietly, the singing of birds. When he closed his eyes, he saw James there.

He saw himself there too. Walking down a narrow, winding country lane, tall hedgerows towering over them on either side. In the shade of them, the air warm, the smell of hay. Green and dark green. Rounding the corner, the hedgerow opening onto a field, the crest of a hill, the village down in the valley below. Sun on their skin. The sound of church bells drifting slowly through the warm air. James turning to him as if to say - _This is ours. This is all ours._

This was a kingdom that Francis had invented, just for James. It soothed his heart to know that James would be safe in this small paradise, even as the world closed in around them, here in the cold and the ice and the darkness.

He saw James there. Every night, he saw James there.

He didn’t know when he had started picturing this little idyll. At first, it had started as a list of the simple pleasures he had enjoyed at home, wherever that was. It was not London, because he felt ill at ease there. Hemmed in. Watched, and judged. Home was not in Banbridge anymore. He had not lived there since he was a boy. His rare visits evoked powerful nostalgia, but not the feeling of home.

The sea was his home, then. The ships. The reason he had joined the Navy, the reason he was still in the Navy, was his yearning to _go,_ to _see,_ to do things he never could have done before. And now, after so many years in the shadow of the Admiralty, Francis had nowhere else to go. Ships were his home. _Terror_ was his home.

But then again, home must have comforts. _Terror_ was all wood and iron and cold. A too small berth in a too small room. Home, Francis pictured, was a dog sleeping by a fireplace. Smooth, worn flagstones in a front hall, warmed by the sun through the open door. A bedroom crowded with books, papers, drawings, engravings. Flowers and fresh fruit, freshly baked bread. The smell of laundry and lavender soap.

Francis could see James in a place like this.

It would be out in the countryside, but it would also have to be close to London, because James did love to be out and about in society. But no – Francis didn’t like that – inviting other people into this small haven seemed to ruin it. This was for James. Francis had built it in his head, all for James.

Francis had never seen James out in the country, but he imagined that he enjoyed it. The life of a country gentleman would suit James very fine. Francis decided that it was the sort of life James deserved, and probably what he would have craved, had he not heard the open sea calling his name.

If he could, Francis would take James away from ships, away from ice, away from the sea. He would keep James safe in Hertfordshire or Herefordshire or any other sleepy English vale he could think of. A place where the worst thing that could happen was a cow getting into the garden and eating all the geraniums.

Someplace warm, where James didn’t need to wear his gansey, waistcoat, coat, greatcoat. Scarf and gloves. Welsh wig and hat. It would be a place where James could feel the grass beneath his feet, or the water of a stream. He would only need to fear the sting of a nettle, or the delicate scratch of a bramble thorn.

It would be a place where orchard trees heaved with fruit – apples and pears and cherries. Staining white shirts with sweet, shining juice. Where rivers thronged with fish, and kingfishers and herons perched on the riverbank. Songbirds in the trees. Pheasants picking their way through the fields.

It would be beautiful, and it would all be for James.

Francis wondered where he himself fit into all this dreaming. He thought of the dog by the fireplace, and saw two armchairs there. He saw himself at James’ side.

This thought troubled him, until it didn’t.

This was only his imagination, his most secret thoughts. Private fantasies that he wasn’t even aware he wanted, until they appeared before him. Nobody would judge him for them. He would not judge himself.

If his mind wanted to picture himself at James’ side of an evening, (the world outside dark and the fire burning brightly, and the golden light of it softening the lines on James’ face, bringing out a hidden chestnut quality in his hair, making his dark eyes shine) that must be what his heart wanted too. Francis was too old and too tired, and too far removed from uptight London society, to argue with his heart. There was a name etched there now, and he was content to let it remain.

Morning came, eventually. The ship became noisy again as men went about their duties. _Terror_ creaked and groaned, as if she was waking up too. Francis rubbed his eyes, his face, ruffled his hair, trying to feel awake and coherent again.

There was the sound of someone approaching his berth, and then Jopson rapped on his door. “Captain’s presence requested on Erebus, sir.”

Francis smiled. He got to his feet to dress, to cross the ice, and see his Second.

**Author's Note:**

> all my writing seems to be inspired by music, and my inspiration for this was See You by Rachel Sermanni, which is a wonderful, earnest, easy gem of a song. 
> 
> this is a very self indulgent fic - at heart i'm just a country girl, and in the dead of winter i end up thinking about english summers.
> 
> find me on tumblr - norvegiae.tumblr.com


End file.
